


Home Before Dark

by Kass



Series: The Sentinel fanworks [13]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: 2001, Angst, First Time, M/M, traumatized!Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-30
Updated: 2008-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:25:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Into the Woods trilogy reaches its denouement. Published in 2001.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home Before Dark

**Author's Note:**

> As always, Justine and Kelyn continue to save me from sloppy phrasing, melodrama and canonical impossibility, and I continue to worship them for it.

Most mornings I have to scramble to shower and shave and find clean clothes before I have to be somewhere: school, the station, wherever. Once upon a time I didn't have any trouble scrambling out of bed. Bed's nice, sure, but it didn't have _that_ much appeal.

These last few weeks, lying in bed has become much nicer. And much more tempting. (Part of why my mornings have been so frantic lately: it's hard to force myself out of bed when he's still in it, and it never takes him as long to get ready as it does me. It's that short-hair thing.)

Most mornings, lying in bed holding Jim, I wind up thinking about us. I've spent most mornings lately knocking my karma down a notch by desperately wanting to maim that son of a bitch Terry.

In contrast to that, it was pretty delicious to wake up this morning and have my first thought be, "mmm."

Jim had some kind of jungle experience last night - a dream or a vision, I'm never really sure - and when I woke him up he fucked me senseless, which is probably the most mind-blowing experience of my entire life. No, it's definitely the most mind-blowing experience of my entire life.

And now I'm waking up slowly, noticing that I'm sore in all kinds of new places. Thank God it's Saturday: time for a nice, quiet, relaxing day. I don't know whether I should give in to the impulse to glow like a light bulb, or whether I should expect Jim to freak out when he wakes up, which means batten down the hatches and get ready for more emotional salvos. When I think of what I'd like to be doing today, though, I can't seem to help blushing. More of what we did last night, please, thinks my brain, and my cock twitches in response.

"Morning, Chief," Jim says, moving slightly to wrap his arms around me. I wonder if he felt that little neuromuscular exclamation.

"You're awake," I say. I have a gift for stating the obvious.

"Forgot to put on my mask last night. Woke up around six," he says. Sunlight. Right.

It's hard to tell, with him behind me, whether he's upset or just being quiet out of deference to my sleepy ears. So I ask. "Are you okay?"

There's a pause, like he's really considering my question, and he says, "Yeah, I think so." Beat. "Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah," I say, and laugh a little. "Might not do a lot of sitting down today," which I immediately regret saying, because I can feel his whole body stiffen behind me. "I'm kidding, that was a joke, I'm sorry," I say as fast as I can, and he takes a deep breath.

"You're really okay?" he asks again.

I turn to face him, trying to put words in my expression as well as my mouth. "I'm great," I say softly. "Last night was amazing, you can't imagine how amazing." He's looking at me so intently that, God help me, I'm blushing again. That's twice already and I've barely been awake ten minutes.

This seems to be the confirmation he needs; his face lightens. "Some day you'll show me," he says, pulling me close. That's the first time he's mentioned the possibility in weeks. First time since the whole childhood revelation, in fact. I try not to let on that I'm surprised. I said he could call the shots; I'll still let him. But boy, part of my mind is already picturing that one.

I like what I see.

* * *

  
Jim must be feeling generous: he lets me have the first shower and doesn't complain when he has to wait half an hour for the water heater to refill. I make some breakfast, put on my about eight layers of flannel, and by the time he's out of the shower there's food on the table and I'm looking through the newspaper for stuff to do.

"A real day off," I tell him. "We have a real day off. On a Saturday, which is a day the rest of the world gets off, too. Well, I mean, observant Jews excepted. But it's Saturday! Which means we could go _do_ something."

Jim raises an eyebrow. "Do something? Like what? I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

I find the page I'm looking for and triumphantly plunk the paper down in front of him. "The robot toys exhibit opens today. It's on loan from Seattle. Look: cars, radio-operated planes and a NASA replica of the space shuttle."

He looks at me over the paper and effects a look of surprise. "I would've thought you'd want to see something _old_," he says, all but wrinkling his nose. "Some anthropology kind of thing."

"Well, now that you mention it, there _is_ a new IMAX about Chichen Itza," I begin, and he wads up his napkin and throws it at me. "Okay, fine, how about robot toys, lunch somewhere nice, then IMAX?" I suggest.

"Somewhere nice?"

I heave a theatrical sigh. "Fine. We'll get burgers. Again."

Jim stands up, comes over to my end of the table, and puts his palm over my forehead. "You don't feel sick to me," he says, and I roll my eyes, and he laughs. "Seriously, Chief, robots and hamburgers? What's up?"

"I get my IMAX," I point out. "And besides, I've got this morning-after glow thing going on." I want to make sure he remembers that I _liked_ what we did last night: it occurred to me in the shower that if he sees me wincing today he's going to kick himself for it, so I'm making a few pre-emptive strikes. "Of course, if you'd rather have sushi..."

"Burgers it is," he says quickly, and I flash him a triumphant grin.

"You're easy to please, Ellison," I say, looking up at him as winsomely as I can. He mutters something about who's "easy" in this household and goes to brush his teeth. I'm feeling pretty pleased with myself: the orgasm of my life, a good night's sleep, and I'm well into my plan to make sure we have a perfect day to top the whole thing off. Cruel world, zero; Blair Sandburg, one.

* * *

  
You'd think I'd know by now that Murphy's Law is stronger in Cascade than anywhere else in the world. If it can go wrong, it will -

\-- and it always involves us.

The morning was good. We got a later start than I intended (damn, that man's distracting) and wound up seeing the IMAX first. It was great. All kinds of from-the-air footage of a bunch of really fantastic Mayan ruins, which - since I turned down that Borneo trip and don't expect to be going on any expeditions anytime soon - I might as well experience via IMAX.

So now we're walking out of the theater, and I'm busy telling Jim (again) exactly why the film was so cool. And he's acting like he's ignoring me, but he's actually listening. I can tell.

In the middle of my ramble about the Mayan calendar, Jim's cellphone rings.

"Ellison," he says, and then, a moment later, "Yes, sir. We're on our way." He snaps the phone shut and I can see the change in his posture: relaxed-Jim's given way to cop-Jim again. He's walking fast back toward the truck.

"Simon?" I ask, as if I didn't know.

"Yep," Jim says, curt. There's a pause. "Sorry about our day off, Chief," he says.

Wow. Did Jim Ellison just apologize for bringing work into a weekend?

We're at the station fast. Before Jim can unbuckle his seat belt I bend over and plant a small kiss at the top of his thigh. He's smiling at me when we get out of the truck. Y'know, even though we're at work on a Saturday, I don't really mind.

* * *

  
"We have a hostage situation, gentlemen," Simon says. He's dressed like he does every day, nice pants, dress shirt, shined shoes, and I find myself wondering if he _ever_ goes home.

"Where?" Jim asks, all business.

"Leo's." At Jim's look of incomprehension, he clarifies, "The fancy men's store. Old part of town."

He says it like he's surprised Jim doesn't know the place. I'm half-tempted to make some crack about Jim's fashion sense, or lack thereof, but I hold my tongue.

"How many?"

"Three perps, at least a dozen hostages. One of whom's badly injured."

Simon's barely finished his sentence and Jim's already stripping off his outer shirt to make room for the Kevlar. I feel like I've been in this scene too many times before.

"Let me go with him," I say.

"Sandburg: no." Simon starts to turn away and I won't let it drop.

"Captain, please."

He looks exasperated. "I don't like to let you into this kind of thing, Sandburg; why would I start now?"

Because it matters more now. Being with Jim matters more now. And Simon's the only other person in the room who knows why. Suddenly all I can think of is the way Jim looks when I say "I love you" and the fear that I'm not going to manage to say it again.

"Captain," I begin, and he interrupts.

"Do I need to give you my usual three reasons why this is a bad idea?"

"I'm not a cop, I'm not a cop, I'm not a cop, I know," I hasten.

"Negotiators have to go in unarmed, Sandburg," Simon says, the words clipped.

"So? I'm always unarmed-"

"-And that makes these assignments even more dangerous-"

"-All the more reason to send me _with_ him!"

I flash a glance at Jim.

"Sir, he could be helpful," Jim says. Simon shifts his glare Jim's way. "He knows his way around the place and he's a good talker."

I don't actually know my way around this place: I've heard of it, but that doesn't mean I've shopped there. Hell, we all know what kind of budget I'm on. I don't mention that. I do flush a little at the compliment, which Simon gracefully ignores.

He rubs his eyes, looking tired for an instant. "Fine," he says, to no one in particular. "Get him a vest." Then, looking at me again, he barks, "Do us all a favor and don't get yourself killed."

I'm not sure if he's referring to my unofficial status, or if he's actually admitting he'd like to keep me around, but either way I smile. "No problem," I say, and we're out the door.

* * *

  
Aside from the tangle of cop cars by the street, the parking lot at Leo's seems empty. We rode over here with Simon and as a result we haven't spoken two words to each other since leaving the office, although I managed to grab Jim's hand when Simon wasn't looking and give it a quick squeeze. He squeezed back, hard.

"We're sending in negotiators. Hold your fire," Simon booms through the electric megaphone, and we step out of the car and start walking slowly toward the door. I don't wear Kevlar often and it's still strange to me: it feels heavy on my chest.

Inside the air feels weird. Naomi would say it's crackling with tension. Then again, she sees auras on a regular basis.

The place is posh. Marble floors alternate with lush carpet, everywhere sleek chrome racks, here and there a round grey dais featuring faceless mannequins in sleek striped suits. Everyone's clustered toward the back: three men with large guns, a crowd of people - hostages - kneeling and sitting on the floor. Two women in dark skirts and white blouses, who I think must be employees. Everyone else is male. And one guy's lying on the floor, his face turned away, one arm and leg wrapped in what look like sweatshirts, both splotched with blood.

Jim shows his badge. "Jim Ellison, Cascade PD," he says. "This is my partner, Blair Sandburg."

"He a cop?" The guy's talking to Jim but jerking his gun toward me. He's shorter than Jim but stockier, with a large black mustache. He looks like Groucho Marx.

"No," Jim begins, and I cut in.

"I'm a negotiator," I say, hoping I sound smooth. "Let's talk about your demands."

The man looks at me for a minute, then seems to decide I'm worth talking to. "Thirty million dollars in unmarked bills, deposited into an anonymous account," he says, flatly. I wonder if he really knows what unmarked bills are, or if it's just something he's heard people say on cop shows, but I don't say anything. "And safe passage out of here."

"Thirty million is a lot of money," Jim says.

"It's a Saturday," I point out.

Groucho's glaring and I think he's about to say something else when one of the women speaks up.

"Excuse me," she quavers, and in an instant the other two guns are trained on her. "This man needs medical attention."

I see Jim looking intently at the man on the floor. Scanning for wounds, I guess.

"What happened, Jim?" I whisper. He doesn't answer.

God damn it, if he zones in here I'm going to have to kill him. "Jim!" I whisper again, more urgently.

He shakes his head once, quickly. Okay. He's not zoning.

The man on the floor groans, quietly. It's a terrible sound. I look at him more closely: he looks close to fifty, short hair turning to salt-and-pepper around the sideburns. He looks like he's in some serious pain. I wonder if they nicked an artery. Already in the time we've been here blood is seeping through the sweatshirt over his thigh.

"Thirty million," Groucho repeats.

"We're working on the money," Jim says, his voice even. That's it, I think, make him feel in-control. "Now, that man needs some help. Why don't you let us take him to a doctor?"

Groucho stiffens. I know Jim's watching his trigger hand, so I look at his eyes. He turns to me. "You take a look at him."

I nod and walk over to the injured man, wishing I'd managed to take that EMT course I keep talking about. I crouch down and he looks at me, his eyes a little feverish.

"I'm here to help you," I say softly. He nods, barely, and rolls onto his back.

It's all I can do not to wince. There's blood all over him, blood on the carpet, and kneeling next to him I can smell its coppery tang. Gingerly I unwrap his arm. He clenches his teeth but doesn't make a sound.

The arm looks ugly but it's not bleeding much anymore. The fabric's all torn, and the flesh's not in great shape, but I don't see bone sticking out anywhere, so I think it'll be okay. Some part of my mind can barely believe I'm having these thoughts. When did "no bone sticking out anywhere" become okay?

"I think your arm's all right," I murmur. He closes his eyes. I move down to the leg.

The leg. It's easier to think of it as "the." That way I can almost keep my distance, almost pretend this is some kind of surreal exercise. I peel back the sweatshirt, which is basically sopping, and when I get beneath it I clamp my hand down suddenly over the wound because it is _really_ bleeding. The man makes a stifled noise and I realize I'm probably hurting him. I wrap him back up, I stand, there's blood on me now.

"This man needs a doctor," I say, as calmly as I can.

"I told you, I'm not-"

"He's going to die unless someone stops that bleeding." That's Jim stepping in, and for some reason I'm insanely relieved to hear his voice. "You don't want a homicide on your hands."

Groucho looks at Jim, looks at the wounded man, looks at me.

"Fine," he says. I start to move to help the man up and Groucho shakes his head. "Uh-uh. You're staying here."

Jim and I exchange a glance. I wonder if I look as panicky as I'm starting to feel.

"My partner is not going to be a hostage," Jim says. There's granite in his tone.

Groucho spreads his hands, as if to say, what can I do? "It's your choice, pal. Let me keep your partner, or the man dies."

Jim's looking at me with something like desperation.

"Okay," I say, and now everybody's staring at me. "Fine. Jim, you take -" and I motion to the man, and I realize I don't even know his name, and I'm about to ask his name when Jim supplies it quietly.

"Terry."

I'm still running off at the mouth: "Okay, you take Terry, get him to a doctor, then you can come back here and we'll finish the negotiations," as my brain's wondering how Jim knew the guy's name, and the wheels are turning, and I notice his large pale hands clenched in his clothes.

_Big hands, or what seemed like big hands, then._

Oh my God.

I feel like I'm frozen. Everything seems to fade, to recede: my world has shrunk to a circle ten feet in diameter. Jim - the man with the gun - Terry - and me. My heart feels unnaturally loud in my ears and for an instant I imagine everyone in the room can hear it, the way a sound effect sometimes takes over a television soundtrack.

This kind of thing isn't supposed to happen. You're not supposed to randomly run into the one person you hate most in the world. Christ, I've spent weeks wanting to _maim_ this guy, and suddenly here he is. Conveniently already maimed and at my mercy. Is this some kind of karmic joke? It isn't funny.

I look at Terry. Half of me hates him, as I've been hating him since I knew he existed. Half of me can't hate him: this is the man I was just trying to help, whose blood is literally on my hands.

When this man was a kid he raped my Jim, and I hate that kid with every bone in my body. But this man has been shot and he's bleeding to death. I can't let him die.

"Help me get him on his feet, Jim," I say softly, and Jim walks over and bends with me. Terry swallows a moan as we try to pull him upright. My hands meet Jim's and I feel a pulse pass through us.

Groucho can't see my face. "I'm okay, Jim," I barely whisper, and his eyes meet mine. "Love you." Jim closes his eyes for an instant and when he opens them they're clear and bright. He heard me. I smile.

Terry's face is weirdly pale and he's sweating hard.

"He's not gonna be able to walk," Jim says aloud.

"So carry him," Groucho snaps. And Jim does: we get him half-upright and Jim picks him up. Terry's not a small man, but Jim makes it look easy, walking toward the door. He pauses for a minute, whispers something to Terry, and leans Terry against the counter.

The next few minutes are a blur. I hear gunfire, I dive for gunman number two, I hit his arms and the gun swings around, people are scattering and shouting, the gunman pushes me back and then I see the butt of his gun moving toward my head.

* * *

  
I wake up in the back of a squad car. Simon's, from the cigar smell. I sit up a little too fast, lie down to let the head rush settle, then get up slowly and move out of the car.

Jim's standing about ten feet away, with Simon, and they're both watching a group of EMTs loading people into an ambulance. Thank God. Jim's okay.

"Jim!"

Both heads turn toward me.

"Hey, Chief, you shouldn't be," Jim starts, and I'm already over there hugging him. Simon looks away, muttering, and I basically don't care. I'm not gonna kiss the guy in public, but I can't help this - just holding him, just for a second.

I let go.

"You shouldn't be walking until someone checks you out," Jim says, mildly.

"I'm fine, man," I say. "I can't believe I missed the action. What the hell happened?"

"We heard what was going on in there," Simon answers, turning back. Evidently he's decided our little public display of affection is probably over. "Your vest was wired."

"They decided they couldn't run the risk of getting you killed, so the SWAT guys burst in," Jim explains. "Turns out one of the salesladies knows jujitsu. She took out one guy, I took out one guy, and the third guy," he gestures toward my forehead, "is the one that clocked you. Fortunately he was so busy aiming the tail end of his gun at you that he never managed to fire it at anyone else. One of the SWAT guys got him."

I can't help smiling. "Couldn't run the risk of getting me killed? I guess you really do like having me around," I tell Simon.

He gets a gleam in his eye. "No, Sandburg, I just couldn't face the thought of Naomi," he says, and cuts the tip off a fresh cigar, and sticks it between his teeth. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he says, starting to head for his car. "Ellison, get him to a doctor."

From there it's an ordinary evening: hit the ER, bandage a rib, clean a bullet-graze, throw in a few stitches, fill out the paperwork and go home.

* * *

  
"What a fucking day." The words are so quiet I barely hear them.

Jim's sitting on the sofa holding a cold beer against his face. We had a frozen pizza for dinner, nothing fancy, because it was easy and it could heat itself up while we took showers and washed the day's events away. In some weird kind of post-traumatic shock state, we've barely spoken since the ride to the hospital.

The whole day's events feel completely surreal now. This morning we were watching a movie. This afternoon I met my partner's rapist, who was bleeding to death in my arms; traded myself for him as a hostage; and got knocked unconscious by the end of a semi-automatic. Now we're home, neither one of us is badly hurt, Terry's in the hospital. I should feel great.

I don't.

I open my mouth, not sure what I'm going to say, and what comes out is, "Do you still hate him?"

He looks at me and I can't read his face. "Kind of," he says softly. Then, "Not really. I don't know."

The words come pouring out. "I couldn't tell whether I wanted to kill him or save him. I hate what he did to you. I've been wanting to kill him for weeks. And then he was bleeding all over me and I had to do the right thing - I mean I think it was the right thing -"

Jim almost smiles. It's a sad look, and it tears at me.

"Kids rape kids because it gives them power, Chief," he says quietly. "It's hard to have less power than he did today. I can't hate him anymore." He thinks for a minute. "Besides, you saved his life. What would the Chinese say about that?"

"I'm not his fucking Blessed Protector," I mutter, and of course he hears me, and he sighs.

"I don't hate him anymore," Jim says again, stronger.

I guess I don't either. I don't know what I feel, but I guess it's not hate. That's probably a good thing. I think I'm too tired to tell.

There's a moment of silence as he walks over to the couch and sits gingerly at the other end: I'm banged up a lot worse than he is, I think he's afraid to touch me. He looks up. "We might as well book you a bed in that hospital, you've been in and out so often," he says, and although the words are joking, there's a sadness underlying them.

"Jim," I start, and he cuts me off.

"You've been in there so often, the E-R staff knows you by name," he says. He's avoiding the real issue, but I decide to play along for a minute.

"So what? I like the guys in the E-R," I joke. "And hey, those scrubs are pretty hot stuff. Might need to get you a pair of those."

I'm pleased; this gets a laugh. "Pink or mint-green?"

"Hm. Pink, I think," I say, just to see him smile. "You'd look good in pink. But don't change the subject. This isn't what's upsetting you."

There's a long, long pause. I'm determined not to speak first.

I knuckle under; the silence is awful.

"You've gotta talk to me," I say softly.

"I don't want to see you hurt. Hell, you're an academic." He's getting himself angry now, I can see it happening. "This isn't what's supposed to go on in your life."

"Jim, it _is_," I insist.

"This isn't your career," he says, "and don't even tell me it's your idea of a good time."

I am not letting us having this argument again. "You're my idea of a good time," I remind him. "I don't give a shit about the rest of it." I pause. "I'm fine; the one I'm worried about is _you_."

Jim waves a hand. "It's no big deal," he says.

Neither one of us says anything for a minute. "He's out of your life now," I point out.

Jim sighs, nods, takes a swig of his beer before returning the bottle to the bruise above his eye. He still looks upset.

"You could've been stuck in there, if SWAT hadn't come in," Jim says, soft. He's not looking at me; he's staring at the ground. "There wasn't a damn thing I could do."

Here we go: here's the real problem. It's not that bad things happen to me: bad things happen to everybody. It's that bad things happen to me, and Jim can't stop them. And he doesn't like that one bit.

"You heard Simon coming, you got us out," I start, and Jim shakes his head. He looks tired.

"I'm just not sure why you stay with me. Every other day I drag you into danger. This isn't the life you wanted."

I get up off the sofa. I walk over to his end and deliberately fold myself into lotus position. If he's going to stare at the floor, fine, I'll put myself on the floor.

"_You_ are the life I wanted," I say, as forcefully as I can without raising my voice. "You stupid asshole, I'm in love with you."

His face is open with longing, just for a second.

"What?" I ask. "What are you thinking? Tell me what that look means."

He looks right at me now. "Make love with me," he says, almost inaudibly.

"Anything you want," I tell him, because it's true. I'll do anything. He puts his beer down, we both stand up, I'm pulling him close and holding him, hopefully not so tight that it hurts.

"Like we did last night?" he murmurs in my ear, and I place a kiss on his neck and pull back for a moment.

"Are you up to that again?" As I speak I'm aware that I'm blushing, again, and he shakes his head, a "you don't understand" kind of shake.

"I want _you_ to," he says softly.

* * *

  
Upstairs, clothes on the floor, lying in our bed, Jim still looks terrified. Like he's decided it's time to jump this hurdle but the deciding isn't quite enough.

If this weren't so important to him I'd tell him he's not ready, he's too scared, we should wait for another night. But it is important. To him and to me. And hell, might as well be honest: my heart wants this because it's a way of getting Jim over his demons, but my body wants this because I've wanted it for years, because I've almost gone crazy with the wanting of it.

I run a hand over the curve of his back and hip, like the edge of a guitar, and he is warm beneath my hand but his muscles are tense. It's making my shoulders hurt just touching his.

I wrap myself around him, place a cluster of kisses along his spine, and start talking. I'm not completely sure what I'm doing, with the words or with my body, but this is what my instinct tells me, and I'm going with it.

"I love you," I say, and he murmurs, "you too, Chief," and I hush him with a finger over his lips, which he bites gently, and I can't help a sigh. I force myself back to the task at hand, the talking, because it feels important.

"No, listen. I love you. I love that you're so strong, I love your long, elegant legs, I love your chest, I love your strong back," I say, and I'm rubbing over his back with my face as I talk, gentling him, feeling his skin on mine.

"I love your hands, your capable hands, your hands that touch me and make me want you, your hands that cook dinner and clean the loft, your hands that feel things I can only imagine," and I pause to suckle his fingers gently, one after the other, and I feel more than hear his small exhalation of pleasure.

"I love that you're a cop," I say, and I think he's starting to understand what I'm doing now, that I'm painting a picture of the Jim Ellison I'm in love with, the man Jim Ellison, to replace the child who was hurt. "I love how honest you are, how dedicated you are to your work, how much you care about what you do," and I'm pressing him flat on his back, taking tiny nibbles of his neck and down toward his nipples, which are beautiful, cinnamon stones in the smoothness of his chest. "God, I love these," I murmur, and bend to lick one gently, then the other, tiny cat licks, and the tension in his body is shifting: from the painful tightness of before to a new posture, half-relaxed, legs opening, hands buried in the sheets and starting to clench.

"I love how responsive you are," I say, taking a nipple between my teeth just for an instant, and his head rolls back and he groans. His desire is starting to outweigh his fear, and a slow exultation is spreading through my limbs as I watch him flushing, as I hear his breath growing ragged.

I move down his body, neatly bypassing his cock (which takes a serious act of will) and bend to lick for an instant at his inner thigh, just far enough inside that he has to open his legs further to let me in. I can feel his heat. "I loved having you inside me," I murmur, placing small kisses up one thigh and down the other, and Jim gasps as my lips brush past him, a near-touch I don't think anyone else could have felt. "You can't imagine how good it felt," licking my way down now, "having a part of you _inside_ me, God, I could come just thinking about it," and he gasps a breath and murmurs, "please..."

I don't have to be asked twice. I push his legs up and let my tongue trace a circle, and he makes a sound I can only call a whimper, and I slip my tongue inside.

"Oh, God. God, Blair," and the need in his voice is like nectar, "I didn't know it would feel so -" and I move my thumbs to hold him open and I lick, as gently as I can, and he's almost crying now. "So good..." With unsteady hands I reach for the lube.

"Can I try more?" I ask.

"Please," he says again, and the word goes straight to my cock, which is wide-awake and begging for some attention itself. I tell it to wait.

I slip one finger inside him, and he's so hot and tight I think I'm going to come from just picturing what this is going to be like when it's my dick and not my hand. I force myself to clear my head: I have to be in control, I have to make this good for him. I don't think I've ever wanted so badly to make something good for someone else.

I pull my finger away and then slide it back in again, and Jim's tiny groans and sighs are the most beautiful thing I can think of. "You like this?" I ask, and twist my finger around.

He exhales a _yes_ and then a quiet "more..."

"I can feel you opening up to me," I murmur, half-amazed, because I've never done this before and it's really working, and because Jim Ellison gasping and trembling is the sexiest thing I have ever seen.

And he opens his eyes, and the look in them is almost enough to finish me right there. "Now," he half-asks, half-commands, and I slick my cock with enough lube for a week and slide into him. There's a moment of resistance and then I am inside.

"Are you okay?" I manage to ask, and he gives a little push in response, and I slide halfway out and then back in, still gently, and as I get as deep as I can his eyes widen and he gasps. I'm scared I've hurt him, and I stop, and his expression changes to frustration.

"More," he whispers, and now he's moving with me, and we're both making sounds we'd never admit to in the light of day. I can feel him straining, and part of me wants to make this last forever, but the other part of me wants to make him come, to watch him come, to be a part of him when he comes, and I push so far inside him that we're just rocking back and forth.

"You're so good," I murmur, each mini-stroke like fire in my cock, "I love watching you like this," and he shudders, and I reach down and hold his cock in one hand, and the combination of pressures - me inside, my hand outside - is what does it: he explodes under me. The heat of his come on my hand, the ripple of him around me, the thought that I did this to him, all tug me with him. When I can move again I slip out of him, he pulls me down, I flop beside him. We're both breathing hard, both sweaty, both a little stunned. After a minute I touch his face, softly. He opens one eye.

"Was that okay?" I ask.

He rewards me with the most stunning smile. "Can we do that every day?" he asks, and I laugh.

"No, really," I say again a moment later. "Are you okay?"

"Really?" he asks, and seems to be pondering. "I never imagined anything that good," he says finally.

We are both grinning like idiots again.

He wraps his arms around me and we fall into a heavy-limbed sleep. Everything's going to be okay. We made it home.


End file.
